


A Memorable Wank

by mycapeisplaid



Series: Corpus Hominis Extras [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from Corpus Hominis.  Sherlock's not usually keen on self-pleasure, but after a snog session in the pool gets cut short - well, he's got to clear his mind somehow.  A shamless little wank fic from Sherlock's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Memorable Wank

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read Corpus Hominis, this will make about as much sense as shoes on a snail.
> 
> Thanks again to my British beta, BettySwallocks, who makes sure I don't sound like a raging idiot and schools me on psychoanalysis. I distract her when she has Important Things to do. Sorry, really, I am. Also, a bit of thanks to SilentAuror, whose latest fic's masturbation session left me, um, inspired?

A Memorable Wank

I have been assigned a simple duty: shower.

This weekend, so far, has turned into a study of myself, and, on the whole, much of the past few weeks has been emphatically _not boring_. If I were honest about it, I would have to acknowledge that every mental wall I’d created separating the mind from the transport crumbled to pieces within months of meeting John Watson, and sentiment, raw and powerful, has wormed its way into my chest cavity and insinuated itself into every fibre of my being. I loathed it, at first. Some horrible parasite, stealing my mental energies and rendering me soft, useless. (Note to self: do not ever tell John I ever compared this feeling I have for him to _Trichinella spiralis_. It might not go over well.)

But John - oh, John. So _right_ in all the ways I am wrong. 

No, love is not a pathogen, but, as John has given me reason to believe, a gift; not a parasite but a symbiont, here, somewhere in my groin, my kidneys, my heart, my head. I feel rather alive at the moment. Overwhelmingly in love. And horribly, horribly distracted.

Well, my brain isn’t entirely broken, I think, as I step into the bathroom, barefoot. A cursory glance around the room tells me John has showered at a less than comfortable temperature (glass clear of mist, tiles cool against my feet, distinct lack of humidity). I lick my lips, taste salt and remember John, the feel of his mouth on mine. I have always found hope to be a foolish emotion, but in those moments, my heart and body naked there before him, hope was all I had. And joy! So much joy. Fierce, piercing joy. It all but paralyses me. 

I see my reflection in the mirror. Here I stand, nude, aroused and smiling to myself like an complete idiot. Somehow, I find I could not care less about this spa and its little mystery. Right now, the baser parts of my mind have chased away all rational thought and all that seems to matter is a physical manifestation of this feeling. Desire. Want. To be desired, to be wanted. 

Hello, insistent erection: proof that Sherlock Holmes is indeed human and male. I think it looks ridiculous. On John, though. Well, that’s another matter. I very much want to see his anatomy, in all its various states of being. 

Turning the shower thermostat to a comfortable temperature, I realise that I want nothing more than to reverse my steps and finish what we’d started. Every moment I’m away from him, even if separated by the mere thickness of a bathroom door, is an opportunity for him to change his mind, to remember all the times he insisted what we had was nothing, to reclaim the words, “we’re not like that,” and retract what he said in the pool. (He won’t. You _know_ him. He won’t.) My brain, flooded with hormones, bends to biology. I step into the spray of the shower and let the water sluice over my sensitive skin. There is only one solution, however inelegant: take myself in hand and find release.

The tiles have warmed beneath my feet; I can nearly picture John here, standing under cool water, washing himself perfunctorily, avoiding his genitals on purpose. To borrow one of my friend’s favourite expressions, _fuck that shit_. 

I inhale and let my eyes drop close so I can better recreate our earlier situation before that man - I _hate_ that man - interrupted us. In an instant I am back in that warm, wet space, my arms full of John, his lips on mine, his hardness against my belly.

I’ve always known that love is a powerful motivator, and right now it motivates me to run my hand down my body and grab at that usually unresponsive piece of flesh. I remember the last time I did this, last month, when John came in from a jog (he said he needs to work out; how I had longed to see what was under those jumpers more clearly). He was flushed and sweaty and vibrantly alive. He greeted me before gulping down a glass of water and heading to the shower. In those few minutes I went from being completely absorbed in reading an article on artificial digestive enzyme creation and the implications for the modern fish-pickling industry to thinking of nothing else but John Watson, naked in the shower. I barely made it into the bedroom before I brought myself off. Forgot what a mess it made. By the time John left the bathroom, I was in Regent’s Park rose garden, on my second cigarette, and trembling with the heady combination of post-orgasmic euphoria and self-loathing.

Waging a war with oneself is an interesting exercise. I have conquered more tenacious beasts than love. If I must continue with metaphors, then I am willingly surrendering to this. John has invaded Afghanistan and a territory far more secluded and dangerous: my heart. 

I love him the way I know to love, with my mind. But there’s more there, and there always has been. Eventually, even the hardest metals meet a boiling point (Tungsten, 5660 °C) and I have melted. 

The fact that John Watson affects the transport is a tremendous understatement. 

It was the hair that did it. John’s scalp has a particular smell, one that I equate with home, of comfort and physical well-being. Of tea and rain and testosterone. It’s a very human smell, and it makes me salivate. The longer his hair gets, the stronger the smell is, and while he looks smart with a close haircut, I can’t say that I’m not a bit disappointed when he returns from the barber. (I took his hat once. I gave it back. Eventually.) As embarrassing as I find it, I have fantasies about John’s hair. And I know he likes mine. I do have nice hair. He’s even said so.

I know John thinks about women’s hair. And their lack of hair. I’ve observed him, watched him watching them. He appreciates their smooth, hairless faces, their soft curves, the way their hair catches light and swings in ponytails. If I had found my courage earlier, if I had closed the spaces between our bodies, would he have balked? Would he have tried, valiantly, to appreciate my male body? Would he have soldiered through a kiss and a grope only to rub a gentle finger into my armpit, my facial stubble, the sparse hairs of my abdomen, before sighing, sadly, and say, “I’m so sorry, Sherlock, but this just isn’t going to work.” 

It pains me to say it, and I will deny it if questioned, but this place is romantic. It’s beautiful, has a fascinating history, the garden has been intelligently planted with several bee-friendly varieties of rose, and I really do enjoy swimming. It has provided me the perfect opportunity to force the issue, much to my initial discomfort. I’m not sure if he knows what he would have done to me if I were met with rejection. I might have just broken. Right there, dissolved into atoms and become one with that salted water. Sherlock Holmes, deceased, cause of death: molecular disintegration from a broken heart. 

But.

But no. My John, _my John_ , my John kissed me and I could hear the locks to at least five rooms in my mind palace break and fall to the floor.

John had already taken a crowbar to the door that housed my libido, and the rusted hinges have fallen off. Right now, it’s raging. My heart aches, I feel high as a kite, and my prick is positively throbbing. 

As the water beats down on my back, my hands get to work in my front. I could have come down there, in that pool, with John’s tongue in my mouth. In hindsight, I’m surprised I didn’t go off like a rocket at the first brush of lips. Kissing has always seemed so...tedious...and I’ve never really enjoyed it, but I stopped counting the times I found myself focussed on John’s mouth, his wonderfully expressive mouth, even in the very beginning, when he would drop words of praise from that tongue, those lips. An instant high. For someone who doesn’t smoke, John is certainly orally fixated. He rubs those lips of his, licks them constantly, pouts, swears. My army doctor, a feisty fellow whose mouth can be as efficient as his fists. His mouth _does things_ to me. It is meant to be on mine, I’ve decided.

I think of that mouth now, its taste and texture, and imagine it on other parts of my body: ghosting over the expanse of my chest, my abdomen, penis and testes. The way he will use it to gasp “fuck” and “Jesus” and “Sherlock.” 

As I replay our midnight tryst in my mind, all rational thought goes offline. I find myself with my back up against the side wall of the shower, tiles now warm against my shoulders, spreading my legs and fucking my fist with one hand and playing with my balls with the other. It’s not slippery enough, and my few endeavors of masturbating with soap have been less than pleasant. It burns. So I stop long enough to look around - conditioner will do the trick - before resuming. It’s not going to take long.

I spin out the fantasy in my mind of what would have happened had we not been interrupted (don’t think about what will happen yet - let it happen naturally, with no preconceived notions): 

_  
“Look,” says John as we sit entangled on the underwater bench. “We’ll get dressed and go back to the suite. I’ve got something to show you from Lillian’s room, anyhow. She’s made a fucking tropical grotto in there.” He puts his hand in mine and kisses my fingers. “Case, remember?”_

_He honestly wants me to think about a case in my physical state? He’ll have to beg my pardon. The transport is otherwise engaged. “Not going to work, John,” I reply. The steam and water from my hands have completely dampened his hair. It is simply delightful. That is, I delight in it._

_“What?” he asks, as if he can’t tell._

_Must be staring. “I’m not thinking about the case,” I say honestly._

_He wiggles himself out from under me and makes to get out. “Oh, yeah? Do I dare ask what you are thinking about?”_

_I mustn’t let him go entirely, although, there’s John’s backside, absolutely perfect. He’s on the second to last step, nearly out, when I embrace him from behind. The height difference has caused my erection to slide against the crease of his arse and small of his back. Oh God. Might as well be honest. “Orgasm,” I say, acutely aware of the timbre of my voice. His mouth does things to me; my voice does things to him. It’s a weapon, and I will use it._

_I touch him, run my hands down his sides, over his hipbones…_

_And this time, in my fantasy, this time we are not interrupted (hateful, hateful man!) and my hands, so much larger than his own, find his erection and close over it. He sighs and melts into my touch, slouching against me._

_“Jesus, Sherlock,” he all but moans, and his head tips back to rest against my shoulder._

_It has been many, many years since I’ve touched another man, and in my fantasy, John’s length is perfect in my grasp, hot and hard. My fingers explore, moving over the shaft, the sensitive glans, down and over his bollocks, while I guide him backward into the water. He lies against me, his weight solid, reassuring. And mine._

_If my hips have started moving, it can’t be helped. The salinity of this pool has rendered the water slippery, and the small of John’s back, pressed against my front, is intensely erotic. He twists his head to kiss me; our mouths connect at an awkward angle but he’s content to stay where he is, especially as my hand firmly closes around him and begins to stroke in time to the thrusting of my hips. I have wanted this for so long, my body has been denied for so long, and we’ve been tangled together for the better part of an hour, I’d wager, that we’re both close. He’s grinding against me, now, and the friction is exquisite. My mouth leaves his to focus on his neck, his head falling back against my shoulder, and my hand begins to jerk him in earnest._

_“Come for me,” I whisper to him, “right here. I’ll come too, and our very cells will mingle together in this water.” The thought pierces me - the two of us, on a cellular level; millions of spermatozoa meeting in a watery dance. Oh. Oh _fuck.__

__

My orgasm rips through me. I am in two places: here, in the shower, my toes digging into the tiny mosaic tiles of the floor as my body arcs with the power of it. I push my cock into my stomach with the flat of my palm as I come, and it feels like it does in my mind, against John’s back as he shouts obscenities that echo off the walls and into the dark, shadowed corners of the pool area. As I attempt to catch my breath, penis still twitching and groin tight, I realise the noise might have been me, and I might have some explaining to do when I finish.

I give myself a few moments to catch my breath as I lean there, hand still on myself. As far as the act of masturabtion goes, that was exceptional. I usually delete immediately afterward, out of respect for my friend (ashamed of myself for giving in). I’ll keep this one, however, if nothing more than for posterity. Fucking hell. 

When I can breathe properly again, I scrub the scent of the pool from my hair and skin, washing thoroughly. The soap is Italian and triple milled, vaguely redolent of olive oil and honey. I notice is that a portion of the shower floor has been retiled in the past 10 years, likely due to a mould problem where the original grout had aged and leaked. Whomever is responsible for cleaning this shower is left-handed and has a shoulder injury reminiscent of John’s: there are slight residue marks here and there from not enough pressure on the upward counter-clockwise scrub.

Oh! And there’s a case.

My brain is whirring to life again, the mystery at the spa becoming intriguing once more. 

Towelling off, I wonder what the rest of this weekend will bring. Sex is a distinct possibility. I shave, fix my hair, put on deodorant, try to negotiate my body’s desires (no, Sherlock, so much more than your body, you fool). Even know, my mind is racing in directions I’ve never allowed it: John and physical intimacy. What will he enjoy? Even allow? Can I touch him? Anywhere? What would he think if I fell to my knees in front of him, desperate to taste him, to take him in my mouth and suck him hard? There are so many things I want to do, so many experiences I want with him. Then it hits me - this goes both ways. How will he touch me? How will I react to his lips, his fingers, the feel of his skin pressed against mine? Will he want to perform fellatio? Should I ejaculate in his mouth, or is that off-limits? What about penetrative sex? Will he be slow and thorough or quick and dirty? I want to know his body (all of it, every inch, and then some more). Will he want to know mine? I’m not a complete novice, but this emotion is completely unprecedented and John has been someone’s lover before, knows the intimate and mysterious dance of bodies and hearts.

I scowl at the mirror. I do not want to think about John’s previous lovers. Those ridiculous, simpering women. Pawing at him. Clambering over his beautiful skin, taking what’s mine. Capturing him inside their sticky, grasping bodies. No more! He is my lover now, and I feel a fierce streak of possessiveness, a green bit of jealousy, roll around in my ribcage. There’s just too much going on in my head. Circuitry overload.

I briefly close my eyes and sort. I sweep the irrational fears into the dustbin, put the rational ones in a file to peruse later, temporarily re-cathect my libido to engage with the Work, and make myself focus. A moment later, I’m sorted. Upon opening my eyes, I find Sherlock Holmes, the man I am familiar with, looking back at me. I nod to myself, as silly as it seems, sling a towel around my hips, and stride toward the door. 

John is out there, waiting. I think he loves me. And soon, so very soon, he’ll show me just how much. I hope we ruin that bed.


End file.
